


Four Illicit Episodes

by prairiecrow



Category: A.I. Artificial Intelligence (2001), ReBoot (TV), Real Ghostbusters, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bondage, Established Relationship, First Time, Foe Yay, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Public Sex, Resisting Orgasm, Sex as Cure, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-11
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:43:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prairiecrow/pseuds/prairiecrow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Illicit sexual interludes with the theme of "questionably timed blow jobs", in four different fandoms: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, ReBoot, A.I.: Artificial Intelligence, and The Real Ghostbusters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Garak/Bashir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set post-"The Search".

"My dear Doctor," Garak said mildly, keeping a pleasant smile pasted firmly on his face, "surely this isn't the best time for —?"

"Yes." Julian, who had walked into the back room of Garak's tailor shop and pinned him against the cutting desk without so much as a by-your-leave, continued opening his tunic with swift economical movements that were the result of long practice. "It is, actually."

It wasn't that Garak didn't appreciate the Human's direct approach — while Julian had a taste for slow thorough lovemaking, he also wasn't above the occasional "quickie" that surged and exploded like a warp core overload. But — "At least let me lock the door first!"

Julian was smiling too, but there was a cruel edge to it that hinted at much deeper and darker aspects of his dear Doctor. "No," he said almost conversationally, finishing his work with the tunic and jerking it open and starting on the front closure of Garak's pants, "I don't think so. Stop squirming."

"What else do you expect me to do?" Garak inquired piteously. "You march into my shop unannounced, pounce upon me like a Delurvian fire-cat, and proceed to —" 

Surgeon's hands were of necessity swift and sure, and Julian's had finished their new task in record time. His left hand locked onto Garak's waist with that strength that always came as a bit of a surprise from so slim and delicate a man; his right hand slid fully inside Garak's clothing, slithering into his green Srovta silk underwear like a warm snake, and started toying with his genital slit. The pulse of sweet sensation cut Garak off far more effectively than any ordinary argument could, prompting a whimper that he'd hate himself for later and opening him up like a _sokka_ flower.

"My _dear_ ," he protested again, but he couldn't seem to put much force behind it. At least he managed to hold onto his benign expression as his thighs opened to permit better access to the most secret part of his entirely buttoned-down body, and to sustain a tone of reproof: "It's not even lunch time!"

A soft purr of laughter in that slender throat, and a whisper against the tiny scales that adorned Garak's jawline just below his right ear: "Let's just say I didn't feel like waiting." And then he did something with those skilled fingertips that drove a surprised _huff_ from Garak's lungs, as accustomed as he was to the inventiveness of this particular lover. His _eraska_ was startled too, so much so that it peeked its head out of its customary defensible position — and Julian promptly caught it between the curves of his fingers and _squeezed_ , sending a shock of bright sparks up Garak's spine to explode inside his skull. 

"If there are any other objections you'd care to register," Julian murmured, working the hot wet flesh and thoroughly caressing each centimetre as it emerged, "I'd suggest you get them over with now."

"Ah." It was a good thing Julian couldn't see his face clearly at the moment, because he was certain he wore a dazed expression, quite unlike his customary composure. "I — no… I can't seem to think of…"

"Well good," Julian said in that husky tone of voice Garak had come (he had to admit) to adore, and then he sank down onto his knees, still smiling, and went to work in earnest. 

Garak's Obsidian Order-trained mind was capable of keeping accurate track of time second by second, but in intervals like this he found himself having to check a chronometer afterwards to see how long he'd been caught there, mesmerized by the sight of that eloquent mouth stretched around his shaft, and by the gleam of those hazel eyes gazing playfully up at him as Julian's lips and tongue did things to him that were quite illegal in Cardassian space, at least between two males. But really, what care should an exile have concerning such things? None whatsoever, Garak had long since concluded, and heartily concurred now as his breathing deepened and his heart rate quickened precipitously with every passing tick of uncounted time. In the privacy of Julian's quarters the sweet boy could keep him on edge for minutes at a stretch, but evidently he was taking pity on Garak's quite legitimate concern that a customer could intrude at any moment, for after a brief interval of teasing he applied himself assiduously, sucking and licking and stroking and biting until Garak buried his fingers in that soft black hair and tipped his head back and surrendered with barely a qualm, managing to confine his vocalizations to a guttural growl that might not be audible on the Promenade if they were both very lucky.

When he'd stopped seeing stars he blinked his eyes open again and gazed at the ceiling for a moment, catching his breath. Julian was already tucking him back into his pants and doing them up again, although this time with a tender demeanour rather than one of lustful urgency. Without looking down Garak held out a hand to him, and Julian took it, allowing himself to be helped to his feet again.

"That," he said softly when Garak met his gaze again, "was for sneaking up on me in the Infirmary last week."

"I don't recall you complaining at the time," Garak pointed out.

"When did I have time? You bent me over the diagnostics console and started jerking me off before I could blink."

"Well," Garak said, proud of himself for having maintained his even tone of voice throughout this exchange (aside from that one damnable whimper and of course the growl), "you have to expect that sort of thing when you take up with a — tailor, don't you?"

Julian laughed, and pressed a fonder kiss to his cheek. "Yes," he said, gazing into Garak's eyes for a moment with a combination of amusement, teasing affection, and a hint of emotions much more dangerous, "I suppose I do, don't I?"

And then he took his leave without a backward glance, every inch the competent and dignified Starfleet officer, leaving Garak in disarray in more ways than one, to put the pieces back together on his own.

THE END


	2. Bob/Megabyte

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set sometime after "When Games Collide".

"Oh _User_ …" He couldn't breathe. He had to breathe. He hadn't breathed in far too long. So he tipped his head back onto the luxurious pillow and forced himself to suck in a chestful of air, to fuel the sparks that danced behind his tightly closed eyelids and seethed in his smouldering prick. "Oh, _yeah_ … that's… that's just…"

The thing about Bob was this: when he was sexually attracted to someone _and_ felt an emotional connection to them as well, he couldn't yell "FIRE!" if his ass was spontaneously combusting. All his glib words and clever patter ran headlong into a brick wall somewhere in the vicinity of his voicebox, and consequently he couldn't have told Dot Matrix that he was absolutely crazy about her if —

So. Yeah. He was burning up for her, and he might as well have been completely mute for all the good it did him. He couldn't tell her that her smile made his heart do flip-flops in his chest, or that her lips made him thirsty in a way that all the energy in the System couldn't quench, and her eyes… well, he could have gazed into her eyes for hours and still never had enough. And she never suspected, because the mere sight of her turned Bob the Guardian, Bob the bold, Bob the seat-of-the-pants flyer, into a man terrified of saying or doing something that would drive her away forever.

But the really funny thing, the thing that brought on laughter like broken glass when he thought about it in his lonely bed late at night, was that if he was hot for someone and _didn't_ feel an emotional connection to them? No problem! He could chat them up as smoothly as ever he'd fed someone a line, and if they wanted to play ball in return —

He hadn't done a lot of that, of course, even if he'd found a fair number of women attractive enough to get his code simmering on a semi-regular basis. The Collective frowned on promiscuity in its Guardians and Bob had therefore been careful about his general conduct. Very careful, in fact. He valued his programming too much to risk it over something as casual as a roll in the hay, no matter how attractive the potential target. 

He still wasn't sure where the hell Megabyte fit into that particular equation. All he knew was that as soon as he'd looked into those fire-and-ice eyes in person and felt that gorgeous dark voice subtly vibrating in his bones he'd begun to fall, a descent that had only accelerated when he'd dared to offer a suggestive comment — and the comment had not only been recognized, but twisted and returned to him with enough spin to make him stagger, keenly aware that he was standing on very thin ice indeed. He'd never felt this kind of magnetic pull toward another male before in his life, much less toward a male _virus_ , much less a virus he'd have to keep dealing with, and fighting, and foiling, for the rest of his time in this System.

Dangerous? Oh yes, but for Bob half the fun was knowing how close he was at any given nanosecond to getting seared to his core. And Megabyte was four-alarm hot, all claws and teeth and bone-shattering strength and incisive malice — and interested enough to keep flirting with Bob after Bob's opening shot, even if it had been in an attempt to manipulate Bob to his will.

_And I'm so much more intimate with you now than any User… aren't I?_

They hadn't even touched each other yet, but that statement had already been true in ways that Bob hadn't let himself think about too closely at the time because he'd been too busy dealing with the situation at hand. Later, though… 

Later it came back to haunt him, and in the end it had drawn him back into Megabyte's hands as surely as a magnet's pull — and any child knew what happened to a sprite who got too close to a field of that intensity.

 _Breathe, Bob!_ But it was hard to remember the mundane details when Megabyte's mouth was on him, right _there_ , after marking a leisurely trail down his neck and torso — if Phong ever had a reason to conduct a full-body exam on him Bob was going to have some serious explaining to do — and oh User, his armour was so cold but when he dropped it to let Bob get closer, to let Bob _in_ , he burned in sweet painful ways that Bob would have sworn should have left guilty tracks on his skin, hieroglyphs of need and possession wherever those golden claws scored him or those silver teeth drew drops of red life-force, or that ebony tongue slithered across every pixel of him, leaving a trail of embers in its wake. He'd say this much for the virus: Megabyte might be the epitome of selfishness and ruthless calculation to the world outside this bedroom, but he seemed to take great pride in reducing his Guardian bedmate to shuddering pleading pleasure-mad incoherence on a regular basis.

Case in point: "Oh _yeah_ … oh, _guh_ …" Bob clutched at the pillow with both hands — he'd learned early not to try to force the issue by grabbing at Megabyte's head — and arched his back, trying to force his hips up against the iron grip of those mechanical hands, but all that netted him was a purr of laughter and the same torturously light attention to the head of his stick: the glide of that reptilian tongue around the swollen tip, slick and prehensile, twining around him without tightening enough to really tweak his nodes, followed by the teasing nip of metallic teeth that sent a flare of sparks sizzling up his spine. He'd lost track of how long Megabyte had been playing this round of their game — all he knew was that it had been too damned long, and if the virus didn't quit messing around and get down to business in the next few nanoseconds Bob would start saying things that Megabyte would make sure he regretted. Not that being punished by Megabyte was necessarily a _bad_ thing — in addition to performing magnificent fellatio he knew tricks with ropes and riding crops that Bob wouldn't have been able to imagine in a million hours — but it would also mean that Bob would be tied down and chastised without getting off first, and that just wasn't going to fly.

But he wasn't going to outright beg. Nope, uh-uh, no fucking way. So when he felt the babble of desperate words surging into his throat he stopped it by the most expedient means possible: he bit down hard on his own left fist so that only a rather petulant whining mutter escaped. 

"I heard that," Megabyte remarked, barely withdrawing his tongue long enough to speak.

"Urmph!" _Of course you did, you bastard_ , Bob thought savagely, but he contented himself with biting down harder. Under normal circumstances "smart-ass" was his default setting, but when he had put himself at Megabyte's far-from-tender mercy all that was likely to get him was ropes at his wrists and ankles and a millisecond or so of "down time" spread-eagled on the bed — still hard as steel, with nothing to rub his aching cock against but air. 

"Such language, Bob!" No voice should be that magnificent, amused and menacing and dripping pure sex. "Would you like me to stop? If you've grown tired of my —"

" _No!_ " Well, so much for not begging. "User, no — don't — if you even _think_ about stopping, I'll —"

The slightest tightening of Megabyte's grip, golden talons nearly piercing Bob's skin; if they did (just a little more pressure, oh User help him!), Bob was pretty sure he'd lose it completely. "I scarcely think you're in a position to be making demands."

He was absolutely right, of course: Glitch was on the bedside table, only bits away, but Megabyte, even from a standing start at Bob's groin, could easily rip out Bob's throat before he'd be able to generate the first syllable of a command-call — and someone who could pick up armoured binome carriers and throw them around like toys wasn't someone Bob could force to do anything by virtue of his own bodily strength. So instead he fell back on a personal asset just as powerful: he lifted his head and flashed a smile down the length of his torso, converting the urge to punch Megabyte square on that patrician nose of his into a slow sensual writhe.

"C'mon, M.B…" A low coaxing growl as he hooded his amber eyes and let that look communicate the full force of his lust — which was a _lot_ of force. "The faster you wrap me up, the faster I can get around to returning the favour."

The virus's answering smile would have sent any other program in Mainframe screaming away at a dead run; to Bob, however, that malevolence was just another hit of the drug he'd come here for. "Now now, Bob — what have I told you about impatience and rewards?"

 _That you live to torture me, that's what, you son of a southbound null!_ That annoyance didn't lessen the hot pulse in his lips and fingertips and stick to any appreciable degree, though. "If you don't _want_ to suck my cock, I can think of a lot of other things I could be doing with it."

A sigh that suggested Megabyte bore the weight of the System on his broad golden-pauldronned shoulders — or perhaps that he was becoming bored, which was an infinitely more dangerous state of affairs. "If my ministrations displease you, we could always find something else to occupy your —"

There it was again, that ground-glass laughter deep in his throat, hoarse with need. "Come off it, Megabyte! We both know that you could do pretty much anything to me and I'd still wind up messing up your bedsheets." It was nothing less than the truth — he was, after all, still a Guardian in spite of his present position. "Tie me up, tie me down, lick me, suck me, bite me, fuck me — just _get on with it_ already, before I start screaming loud enough that Hex will hear me in Lost Angles!"

The cruelty in that thin smirk went straight to Bob's heart like a silver blade. "Well, we can't have that, can we?" Megabyte purred, and started to do things again, things that had Bob thrashing and moaning and begging within nanoseconds, long torturous merciless exquisite things with that deadly mouth full of razored teeth and poisoned words and relentless emnity, things that made Bob scream in the end after all. As he lay panting in the aftermath, feeling like every bone had been forcibly pulled from his body along with his sex-code, he closed his eyes and wondered if there would be anything left of him when he hit the ground at the bottom of this fall — or if maybe, just maybe…

"Now," Megabyte growled as he moved up the bed, leaning close to shake Bob's core with that velvet rumble right in his ear, "I believe you were saying something about reciprocity…?"

And for a long span of microseconds Bob found himself unable to say a single solitary word.

THE END


	3. Professor Hobby/Gigolo Joe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after "La Vie en Rose" and before "Through the Glass Darkly".

"… and after all that, she actually _missed_ her turn at the booth! I couldn't believe my eyes! Two hours bringing her up to snuff on the specs, and — well, isn't that just like a woman, eh?"

"Hm," Allen Hobby said with as much sagacious interest as he could pretend to muster — which was, at the moment, not very much at all. Not that Doctor James Drew, whose genial florid face currently filled his desk monitor, would particularly notice: once the man got going he was a conversational force of nature like Niagara Falls, and just about as impossible to dam or divert.

"That's what I said! But of course Alison wouldn't call her on the carpet for it — thick as thieves, those two are…" 

"Mm!" Hobby nodded curtly, hoping that the coughed exclamation would be mistaken for particularly enthusiastic assent. Under the edge of the desk, between his legs, Joe made a tiny purring sound of satisfaction and did that thing with his tongue again, the thing that Hobby hadn't been able to analyze in nearly three years of ownership and which, quite frankly, he was in no condition to parse now.

"Exactly! It started back when they were going to university together, you know — two different departments, same campus, and heaven only knows how they met in the first place, but you couldn't pry them apart with a —"

James Drew was an amiable but irredeemable boor who had developed a habit of calling Hobby to chat at odd moments during the work day. Joe was a saucy lover-robot with a mischievous streak that had only been enhanced by the Orison upgrade and who could, when he wanted to, slip under all kinds of radar as smoothly and as silently as a cat. It was a combination that was bound to have led to trouble sooner or later, although as trouble went Hobby could imagine himself in far worse situations.

Not that being serviced — slowly, thoroughly, adoringly serviced, with technique that surpassed the most skilled human courtesan — by said sex-mecha while conducting a video call with said boor was something he would have set in motion of his own volition. He was fairly sure he'd never said words to the effect of: "Joe, I find his calls interminable and would really appreciate it if you'd sneak under my desk the next time one comes in, unzip my pants, pull out my penis and proceed to make things _much_ more interesting." But Joe was capable of coming to his own conclusions and acting in accordance with his own self-motivated reasoning, and really, Hobby had nobody to blame for that particular set of quirks but himself.

Furthermore, over the last three weeks Hobby had come to a startling conclusion: that Joe, who was programmed for general friendliness to all and sundry, had conceived a dislike for the man who had interrupted his first interlude of true sexual pleasure with his owner, his master, and his lover. This, therefore, could be a way of getting his own back: of slyly cocking a snook at Drew in a way that ultimately only he and Hobby would ever fully appreciate. It was a mark of how far Joe had come that such a double-edged behavioural — 

"Hmmm," Hobby nodded again as Joe's tongue performed a dizzying swirl around his cock's head, making it swell and throb even more distractingly. Drew was still babbling on, but the words were ceasing to make sense to Hobby's overheated brain. At the bottom of the screen the call timer stood at 2:18 — Joe had been at it for a little over two minutes, and Hobby was rapidly getting to the point where he was going to have to reach down, run a caressing hand back over the mecha's sleek hair, and take hold of the nape of his slender neck to pull him all the way down, into a position where his tongue and teeth and throat could finally, blissfully milk his human mate dry. And still Drew was rambling:

"… if you ask me, women — most women, mind you, not _all_ women, that would be bigoted — should just steer clear of the hard sciences. Don't have the temperament for it. Don't think quite the right way, if you know what I —"

"Hm!" He nodded emphatically, leaning back in his chair and putting his elbows firmly on the arm rests and clasping his hands tight together in front of his chin. Joe was tugging his pants and underwear down around his hips, only an inch or two, just enough to — oh God _yes_ , slim fingers slipping inside the fabric to curve around his testicles, cupping and squeezing and —

"… all be better off if — I say, Allen, are you all right?"

Ah. So he _had_ made that strangled sound out loud. With a considerable effort of will he transformed the grimace of pleasure into a wince of discomfort and pressed an open hand to the centre of his chest. "I'm sorry, James — indigestion."

The engineer's puzzled expression shifted to one of sympathy. "Oh heavens, yes! Had the cafeteria's shrimp scampi too, did you?"

"To my everlasting regret," Hobby said with feeling. Joe had just begun applying electric little love-bites, soothing each one with a tender heated stroke of that remarkable tongue.

Drew nodded, looking both mournful and regretful. "That's the last time I'll be trying their —"

"In fact," Hobby continued as his hips began to rock, tiny jerks, but his fraying control could exert no better discipline over his own responses, "I think I'd better go and — take care of it. _Right now._ "

"You look terrible, old chap!" Drew appeared both condoling and avidly interested. "I think that's an excellent i—"

Joe hummed soft laughter in way that sent a white-hot shock up Hobby's spine. Squeezed with both hands. Plunged down. _Sucked_.

"Later," Hobby managed to grind out as he reached for the keyboard command to terminate the call, and barely made it in time. 

When the blinding pulses had ceased and the stars had faded from his sight he found Joe straddling his lap, pressing little smiling kisses to his face and running slow savouring hands over his chest and shoulders. He wrapped both arms around the mecha's waist and pulled him close, bowing his head to nestle his cheek against that strong willowy neck, breathing in the fragrance of silky artificial skin.

"That's it," he announced after a long breathless moment, his voice muffled against Joe's suit jacket. "One of you is getting transferred to Alaska."

Judging by the smug expression on Joe's beautiful face, he knew full well that the person getting on a hypothetical transport wasn't going to be him.

THE END


	4. Peter Venkman/Egon Spengler

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From "The Real Ghostbusters" cartoon, not the movies. The characters (Peter is the brunette, Egon the blond): http://fc04.deviantart.net/fs22/f/2007/347/5/8/The_Real_Ghostbusters_by_Albert217.jpg

Peter Venkman let his weight rest against mouldy red velvet wallpaper and tipped his head back to stare up at the low dark ceiling of the walk-in closet, festooned with cobwebs and the dust of about three decades of abandonment, and wondered — not for the first time in his career as a Ghostbuster — exactly how things had spun so far out of control.

Ten minutes ago he'd been colder than a witch's tit. Five minutes ago, even. Hello, _two_ minutes ago, when Egon had turned his PKE meter on him, studied the readouts for a few seconds, raised one blond eyebrow and grabbed Peter by the arm of his uniform to march him briskly down a short corridor of the former DeVries mansion and into one of the master bedrooms. Peter had been trying to protest the whole way — that's when he discovered that he was so chilled that his teeth were chattering — but Egon, with typical monomaniacal preoccupation, had ignored his juddery attempts at speech and hauled him across the bedroom past the wreckage of what had once been a fine bed, into the closet they currently occupied. 

And that's when things had gotten… interesting.

Peter had to admit that he'd been plenty preoccupied himself: ever since getting hit by a blast of blue-black energy from the Class Six they were chasing he'd been feeling… off. Usually he had a heart of flesh and blood, not gradually coagulating ice, and he was pretty sure the ambient temperature hadn't been around zero and getting lower when they'd started this assignment. But he hadn't mentioned it because hey, they _did_ have a job to do, and they'd done it, trapping the S.O.B. in nearly record time for a hide-and-seek scenario — which had left only a measly Class One, giggling like a buzz saw as it flitted away across the remains of the ballroom and ducked into a narrow service corridor. Peter had hefted his proton gun again, ready to charge (or rather stumble, given the stiffened state of his leg muscles) in pursuit, but Egon had laid a firm hand on his shoulder, stopping him instantly.  

Egon engaged in physical contact so seldom that this should have been a big screaming clue, but… well, Peter's brain had been feeling a bit frosty too. He'd looked up to find the physicist looking down at him intently, wearing what Peter had come to label his "Calculating, Calculating, Calculating" expression, complete with monotone computer voice.  

"Ray, Winston, can you handle the Class One?" Never taking his eyes off of Peter, he reached for the PKE meter clipped to his belt. "I think Peter's been hit with something a little more bioactive than ordinary lumotic discharge." 

They nodded at once. "Sure thing, man," Winston had assured him, then caught Ray's eye and jerked his chin towards the corridor entrance. 

"See you later," Ray had called cheerfully as they'd set off at a jog, leaving Egon to scan and Peter to stare up at him with his mouth a little open, wondering why the hell it was suddenly so damned cold in here… 

That had been two and a half minutes ago, maybe. And two minutes ago Egon had dragged him into this closet — when a guy as big as Egon Spengler wanted you to go somewhere with him you didn't have a whole lot of choice, even if you _were_ a jock — and taken hold of Peter's upper arms and guided him to stand against the wall, between the hanging remnants of a 1920's dress suit and a pink negligee that had (hopefully) seen much better days. Dim daylight seeped in through the open door from the bedroom's cracked and clouded windows, carving the left side of Egon's face and figure into sharp relief against the shadows.

He'd stared up into those piercing slate-blue eyes, disconcerted, frustrated — and colder than the iceberg that had sunk the Titanic. "E-E-E-gon, wh-what th'ell d'you —" 

"Don't talk, Peter. You need to conserve your energy." He let go and stepped back to consult the PKE meter again, and his scowl suggested that he _really_ didn't like what he was seeing on its face. The "Calculating" look was back in spades, along with the quality that Peter had labelled Egon's "This Is Bad" expression — which usually meant that the Apocalypse itself was about to go down. He opened his mouth again, but this time found that he couldn't haul any words at all up from the ice-locked shuddering in his core. 

His mouth was still open when Egon nodded decisively, put away the meter, took hold of Peter's shoulders, stepped right up against him, and kissed him. 

And not your Granny's _Well aren't you a sweet little boy?_ kiss, either. No, this one _burned_ — and Peter's eyes, which had been drifting closed as hypothermia set in, shot open and stared wildly at the neatly groomed platinum blond hair above his long-time colleague's left ear. He tried to yell — "Egon, what the _hell_ —?" — but all that emerged through the lock of their lips was a strangled little _guh!_... and a whimper. 

A whimper? 

Hell yes! Followed by another one, because… 

 _It's always the quiet ones,_ he thought in a bit of a daze as Egon's lips and tongue continued to be, well, quintessentially Egon: thorough, detail-oriented, efficient and mind-blowingly excellent. He tasted faintly of the hot chocolate he'd been sipping before this call came in and his breath, mingling intimately with Peter's own shivery respirations, was warm and surprisingly sweet; Peter drank it in, all of it, trying to give back as good as he got, and when he realized that he'd caught hold of Egon's waist and was pulling the taller man even closer he found it really hard to give a flying damn because he was hot, so hot in all the ways that Peter needed right now, and… 

The height difference made it less awkward than he would have expected. Huh. But craning and extending his neck like this would lead to a major kink if he wasn't careful: next time they'd try this on the firehouse stairs, or lying — 

 _What the — "next time"? There isn't going to be a "next time"! There shouldn't even be a "this time"!_  

"E-goh!" His mouth didn't seem to have gotten the message, especially his tongue, which was romping around pretty damned enthusiastically. He reined it in and tried again through the lip-lock: "E'on, wha' —" 

Egon pulled away just enough to study his face, parsing it with a single glance. "Peter, do you trust me?" 

"Wh —" His mouth fell open even more out of sheer amazement in the face of such a ridiculous question. "What kind of — yeah, of course I —" 

He started to unbuckle Peter's belt, quickly followed by the lower strap for his proton pack, clearing the front closure of his jumpsuit. "There isn't time to explain. But I'll ask you to put your hands against the wall and not to interfere with what I'm going to do next." 

"It — wha' — you're —?" 

"I know what's wrong with you, and I know what to do about it. However —" One swift movement unzipped Peter's uniform to the groin, where things were definitely sitting up and taking notice. "— the treatment may come as a bit of a shock."

"A bit of a — like getting French kissed by you isn't —" 

Egon kissed the tip of his outraged nose, and smiled that slight smile that managed to warm his entire face. "Trust me," he advised again, his voice a silky rumble, his skilled hands already folding Peter's pants open, and tugging down his underwear enough to slide his half-erect penis free, and then… 

… and then we sank down onto one knee, and he — 

He — 

 _Oh Jesus,_ Peter's forebrain managed to moan as the sight of Egon Spengler licking the head of his dick and then sucking it between his full lips blew every circuit in his skull, _I've died and gone to Heaven. That must be it. That Class Six blew me away, and now…_  

 _… now I'm being blown by Egon_. And that's when he'd tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling, his eyes glazing over as sexual heat surged through every nerve in his body. His heart, which had slowed and thickened with the cold, was light and pounding now, and it was all he could do not to use both hands to pull Egon's head closer, to quicken the slow methodical strokes of his mouth, down and up, swirl of tongue on the head — oh _God_ , an edge of teeth — down again, down, hot and tight and — 

He knew he was whining now, but who cared when there was only an empty house to hear him? To witness his best friend twisting a lifetime of sexual orientation so far out of shape that it bent and broke in sprays of white-hot sparks? To feel the pounding of his pulse and his ragged gasping and his heart heating up, expanding, filling his chest and sending fierce blood singing to every extremity? To realize that his emotions would never be — 

Never be the — 

 _"Oh God Egon!"_ he wailed, and came so hard that the darkness became a sea of stars, an alien sky imprinted with constellations he had never seen before but which he'd learn to trace and to name, a whole new mythos to be written and enshrined for the ages. 

When he finally opened his eyes again he found Egon back on his feet and in the process of deftly closing up the jumpsuit again. For a few seconds he simply gazed up at the scientist with a silly little grin, and Egon was just finishing re-buckling the belts when he finally murmured: "O-kay… wanna fill me in?" 

Egon took a step back and pulled out the PKE meter again, scanning up and down Peter's body as he spoke: "As I'd suspected, the Class Six we just captured was an acolyte of Thanos, with the ability to channel that deity's god-given powers at will. It hit you with a concentrated burst of thanotic energy, which proceeded to shut your body down." 

"Thanos?" Peter was a psychologist, and well aware of Freud's theories on the Death Drive. "You mean I was —" 

"Dying, yes." He closed up the meter and put it back on his belt with an expression of approval. 

"And giving me a blow job saved my life… how?" 

"Erotic energy is a sovereign antidote for thanotic energy," Egon explained, "and the most quickly administered remedy — provided there's sufficient compatibility between the two individuals involved." 

For a long moment all Peter could do was gape at him. "Are you saying that… you're attracted to me? That you _have_ been attracted to me? I mean — sexually?" 

Egon straightened his glasses primly. "I should think that would be obvious." 

Logic was a harsh mistress: "And that I'm… to you?" 

"This experiment provided some highly thought-provoking data to support that —" 

"Egon?" 

"Yes, Peter?" 

The grin resurged, this time far more predatory, and he caught hold of Egon's arms and stepped forward and turned both their bodies, pushing the physicist back against the wall next to the bedraggled piece of lingerie. "I definitely think we need more data on this phenomenon. A _lot_ more data…" 

As research went it yielded spectacular results, although later, after they'd emerged from the closet dusty and cobwebbed and looking very pleased with themselves, Peter would be amazed (and a little annoyed) to discover just how profoundly _un_ surprised Ray and Winston were by this latest turn of events.  

THE END


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